


Whiskey Flavored Dreams

by Mishka10



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s03e06 Dolce, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Italy, M/M, Reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 04:01:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28824882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mishka10/pseuds/Mishka10
Summary: Unhappy in Italy Hannibal takes to spending his nights at an ever changing rotation of bars, happy to let days and nights blur together without concern. Until fate throws back a familiar face into the mix.A reimagining of Hannibal and Will's reunion in Dolce,With alcohol this time, so much alcohol.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 1
Kudos: 35





	Whiskey Flavored Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> -this idea was 100% lifted from a tumblr post that in true fashion i now can't find again

Hannibal

It starts with one drink.

“bourbon, neat”

One drink followed by another.

He doesn’t necessarily intend to let it go as far as it does, not the first time anyway.

But then two drinks become three, become four, five… become… a hazy mind, not bothering to keep count.

It had snuck up on him gradually, a soft warmness that slowly spreads, until his body is dull, mind fuzzy.

Normally he would have stopped long ago, not one to enjoy letting substances overwhelm him. Not in public at least, not where others can see him lose control.

But there is a hole in his chest that nothing so far has been able to fix. Not the comfortable admiration of Italy’s social elites, the superior satisfaction of outsmarting the entire police force, not even the careful deconstruction of a human frame, taken apart piece by piece before carefully being put back together again. Better, than before.

To be fair, the bourbon doesn’t exactly fix it either.

But it numbs it. Smooths over the deep cavern with an _almost_ comfortable worth, worries tucked away between his ribs for a time if nothing else.

So, he lets it go. Lets the whiskey sink into his bones, warm him from the inside out.

He doesn’t bother telling himself it is just for one night.

He knows already it won’t be.

And sure enough, before he knows it, one night becomes two, three, more, until it is undeniably a pattern.

Not strictly bourbon, but drinks.

bourbon, scotch, rum on occasion, a nice port that likely costs him more than his bartender makes in a night, red wine followed by-

Water. Aspirin.

Mixed spirits already enough of a guarantee to turn his stomach, he won’t torture his body any more than he needs to. Any more than is necessary to numb the peculiar ache in his chest.

It becomes a routine.

Days spent carefully put together, nice clothes, nicer food, an afternoon socialising, perhaps the opera, the theatre, a dinner party if he feels like truly entertaining.

An ever-changing mix of opulence and niceties, money spilling between his fingers, the ache ever growing in his chest.

And at night, at night he finds his way back to a bar.

Somewhere nice, but not too nice.

Nice enough to have the good stuff, top shelf. Alcohol actually worth drinking. He has no interest in torturing his taste buds, even if the rest of him is suffering, he can taste the first few, even if by the end of the night it all seems the same.

Nice, but out of the way enough he lowers the risk of running anyone who knows his face, either from his current social circle or his previous… life. Somewhere quiet enough he can steal a corner table, settle in for the evening...

And drink.

And drink.

Until his chest doesn’t ache. Until his head is blank, and niggling whisps of… ~~worry~~ , ~~fear, regret,~~ boredom. are silenced, for a time at least.

He gets home before sunrise somehow each time. Memories often only a blur by then.

It’s a comfort, no matter how much he drinks, no matter how far he goes he always wakes up back where he belongs, glass of water on the nightstand, second aspirin sat beside it. whatever clothing he had worn the night before hung up neat, not to be wrinkled, even if it does now stink of alcohol, fumes soaked into the stitching once more.

It is a gentile reassurance that even while intoxicated he has the sense, the control, to manage that much.

He doesn’t let himself think what a miracle is he’s never woken up with blood under his fingernails, not even a well-earned ache in his knuckles from a strike he doesn’t remember throwing.

It seemed no matter the indecency he met, and to be certain one could find plenty an unpleasant man to be found at bar on a Thursday afternoon, he manages to behave himself. He tells himself it’s because he’s keeping a low profile… in a sense at least. Perhaps. When it suits him.

Tells himself he is being smart with any such movements

He doesn’t let himself dwell on the whispered thought that it is actually because when it comes to it, he would rather spend the night drowning in spirits than bother with a body.

At least he can’t think of such things when drunk, brain too fuzzy to manage such complexity. To manage much of anything, world of thought dropping away, to become one of feeling.

The warmth in his bones, raising to his cheeks, the cool press of the scotch glass to his skin, fingers rubbing down the glass, focusing in on sharp grooves, fingertips pressing hard enough to hurt.

The tug in his chest-

The hole. On the nights it doesn’t numb it properly like it should.

The nights the drink seems to amplify it instead. Rip open the hole, split his rib cage in two and leave him bare, organs spilling out, all over the bar floor to be trodden underfoot, kicked under the bar by a careless patron.

It hurts.

Hurts so bad sometimes he considers taking a knife to it, cut his heart free from his chest and stuff the hole full with whatever else he can find, if that is what it would take.

But he doesn’t.

Because he knows if he waits the drinks will eventually do their job as they should. They will eventually numb it back down into oblivion. Or perhaps they will just muddle his mind enough that he doesn’t care.

When one’s vision begins to blur, edges fading out into fuzzy blackness, hands slick with sweat, disoriented enough that getting a glass to his lips becomes a battle… well, it is hard to still have mind to worry about an imaginary hole in your chest then.

But it’s fine.

It is.

No harm seems to come from it, not really, ~~apart from what it must be doing to his liver,~~ so why would he need to stop?

It’s a hotel bar that night.

He likes the hotel bars, they were almost always guaranteed to be small, and they removed the risk of running to any locals. The fact they are always open, even on a Monday night, is just a convenient bonus, nothing more.

Open, and at least mostly quiet. No more than the odd group of rowdy businessmen or the occasional odd tourist, too lazy or tried to bother going anywhere better.

This one is no different from the others, small, clean. Music just not offensive enough to ignored.

There are a handful of other patrons when he comes in, a young, sunburnt couple, already looking half asleep on their feet, a few men in suits almost as nice as his own settled at the bar, occasionally tugging the bartender into some meaningless conversation or another.

He pays them no attention, and in return they each spare him no more than a quick glance before returning to their conversations and drinks.

Leave him be to claim a small corner table, practically hidden away from the rest of the room, wave down a server and settle into his routine.

And drink.

* * *

Will

He just needs to sleep.

Gods he just needs sleep.

The place is fancier then he would have preferred. Not quite his usual hide away.

If had the choice he would have found some suitable hollow of a pub that he could curl up in, nursing a nice drink or two, or three… four, however many it took for the alcohol to override the bags under his eyes, the nervous twitch that never quite seems to fully go away.

Somewhere musty and real.

This wasn’t that.

But it was close to where he was staying, and it was quiet enough, private enough, good enough for the evening.

Good enough to get drunk in, before stumbling his way back to his room, collapse into bed, brain finally quiet enough to let him sleep.

God please just let him sleep.

But first, let him drink.

He sits at the bar, far corner, away from most of the noise, the pockets of chatter, conversations bubbling along in distracting mix of languages, from the chinses businessmen to the young German couple… most of what was being said he couldn’t understand even if he tried.

Good. He likes it that way.

Makes it easier to ignore chatter, let it drift off into the background, along with the… truly awful soundtrack, what high end establishment blasts an 80’s playlist on a Monday night?

He orders a whiskey, doesn’t care about the particulars, so long as it’s cheap, so long as it burns on the way down, that’s all he needs.

And it does burn, rough and sweet, sets a fire in his chest, just like he wants.

He nurses the glass, fights off the temptation just to down it. It’s a long night, he can afford to pace himself. He wants to be numb, to shut down his mind and the pounding headache behind his eyes, but he also wants to be functional tomorrow.

He needs to be functional tomorrow.

There’s no point being here if he spends half his time curled around the toilet, vomiting his guts back up. 

So, he paces himself. Stares blankly at the mute tv on the wall, playing some sports game he couldn’t care less about and nurses down his whiskey. 

Focuses on the tv. Track the ball, keep his mind blank of any other thoughts. 

Even so, he doesn’t know how it takes until the third drink until he notices him.

Till he hears him.

That painfully familiar voice, little more than a murmur, too quiet for him to make out the words.

But he knows. Somehow, he knows without looking. He feels it in his bones, muscles instantly tense, even with all the alcohol already in his veins.

He could be wrong, he tells himself. He could be wrong, perhaps his ears deceived him, as his eyes had already once or twice, catching glimpses of a familiar silhouette in a crowd, thinking, for a moment… but then he would look again, really look and realise he had been wrong.

Perhaps that had simply elevated to auditory hallucinations as well…

He almost wonders for a second which possibility would be better.

He turns slowly. Casually, at least he ~~hopes~~ thinks it is casual, comfortable, just a man at a bar, surveying the room. A lonely little man, curled in the edge of the bar corner, taking up space and time for a handful of drinks- carefully missing the bartender’s eye every time the man tried to do his job, draw him into conversation-

He turns casually.

Lets tired eyes take in the room. He looks, really looks this time. Scans the room, checking each face with care.

It’s good that he does. He almost misses him. Almost.

But then he thinks that he is supposed to.

That’s what Hannibal wants, to be just another figure, another nameless businessman in a suit, letting off steam on the company credit card.

But he doesn’t miss him. He knows that familiar face, even hidden in the shadows, half tucked out of sight – he knows that face, he thinks he would know it anywhere.

But…

Hannibal looks… wrong.

The slump in the shoulders, too deep, uneven. The uneven hang of his jacket, tie missing- tucked into a pocket? Half sticking out - the arms on the table, hair, almost right, but somehow just out of place. Just like it shouldn’t be.

Hannibal looks terrible, and yet, somehow still good.

It’s unfair, he thinks for a second, that even curled up in the corner of some tiny, half forgotten bar, nursing a glass of… port? He still looks good.

It’s the relaxed confidence in his shoulders, slumped as they are, the way his chest is still open, body slumped back, not curled in on itself like he is. The half rolled up sleeve, it’s messy, it shouldn’t look good.

Hannibal looks like a drunk, tired mess. 

And yet somehow still good.

He could just leave. The thought hits him sharply at the sight of Dr. Lecter. He could just leave. There’s alcohol in his veins, although not enough to fill him with unnecessary confidence or fully mute the pounding ache in his head.

But this is why he is here, isn’t it?

Can he really just leave? Would he ever be able to forgive himself if he does, what if he never finds him again, never gets this chance again…

He downs his drink, waves down the bartender for another one and considers downing it as well. He doesn’t, instead he takes a gulp, feels it burn and stands. Bar stool pushed back, slides against the floor, too loud. Too much somehow. Not that anyone else seems to notice.

He could sit back down, he could walk out the door, put in an anonymous call to the police, go back to his hotel room and let whatever happens play out without him. 

He doesn’t.

Doesn’t even consider it. Doesn’t think about what failing to consider it means.

He doesn’t let himself think about much of anything, he just moves.

He brings the whiskey with him.

He isn’t going into this conversation alone.

Lecter doesn’t look up for a moment after he slides into the seat across from the man, whiskey glass scrapping against the table, a heavy sigh torn from his lips. But he knows. Will knows he does, he sees it, half a step before he reaches the table, the tiny shift- a flash on surprise mixed with confusion, disbelief and something else, something he can’t quite figure out.

For half a second he just sits there, absorbing the reality of the situation. The reality of the man sitting before him. Physical, firm and real.

And then Lecter looks up.

It shouldn’t surprise him.

And yet somehow it does. His breath catches in his throat, mind suddenly frozen, momentarily chocking off the possibility of words. Somehow a small sliver of a smile slips across his lips without the permission of his mind.

“Mr. Graham.” The title almost feels cold, spilling across Hannibal’s lips, cold and impersonal, and for a moment he wonders if he made a mistake, sitting down, being here, coming to Italy at all- “… it’s good to see you Will.”

And just like that his heart starts beating again, he pulls in a breath, managing to find his tongue once more, “It’s strange, seeing you here in front of me… been staring in after images of you in places you haven’t been in years.”

The hint of a smile slowly graces Hannibal’s face, the edges of the lips only just curling up, “is that so?”

“I wanted to understand you, before I laid eyes on you again,”

Hannibal’s smile seems to grow, somehow. Not visibly, but somehow else, he can feel it, feel it deepen on Lecter’s face, “And do you understand now?

He wants to say yes, spin some tale about how the two of them have begun to blur together, into one, so perfectly aligned. He thinks Hannibal would like that. But this… it feels almost like an interruption, a disturbance that catches the yes in his throat, sours it into a lie.

But he doesn’t want to say no either. That feels as false an agreement would be.

He takes a drink.

Watches Hannibal shift over the edge of his glass. The doctor takes the interruption to straighten, shoulders shift back, jacket straightened, image ever so slightly repaired it seemed.

Hannibal’s nose wrinkles, a singular unimpressed expression played out on his face, “your drink smells better suited to a dive bar, let me order you another.”

He swirls the liquid around in the glass and takes another gulp, feels the burn, “I like the whiskey.” And it would not do well to let himself get too intoxicated, given the circumstances.

Hannibal’s mouth quirks, ever so slightly, amusement mixed with disagreement, something about it makes his chest burn even more than the whiskey.

He can’t help but wonder how much Lecter had already had to drink, more than him he’s willing to bet, Lecter had been there longer than him, not to mention the light, glassy haze touching the man’s eyes- how much exactly had Hannibal already had to drink?

Not enough it seemed, the man catching a server’s eye, waving the young lady over with the curl of two fingers.

And before he can voice another protest Hannibal has sent the server scampering away, order made, a refill for himself, and another whiskey for Will, top shelf, single malt.

He huffs. Tries another avenue, “I thought I needed to understand you to find you… and yet here we are,” He pauses for a moment, gives them both the space to take a breath, “been spending much time in drinking establishments lately Dr Lecter?”

Hannibal flinches. Only just, ever so slight, ever so noticeable. He had hit a nerve, and he can’t say he’s sorry for it.

But it’s only for a moment, before features smooth over, lip curled up a touch, half dangerously now, more a snarl then a smile, “I could say the same for you Will, you… reek of poorly distilled spirits and cheap barstools.”

He almost laughs at the accusation. Almost. “you flee all the way to Florence, to end up in a three-star hotel drinking second rate wine.”

Hannibal does smile at that, all teeth, edged and dangerous, “my apologies if it is not up to your standards, would you have preferred the Galleria degli Uffizi perhaps? Meet in front of a Botticelli… tell me Will, would that have been fit for your vision?”

“is it my vision or yours?”

“Are they different anymore?”

He pauses at the question, are they different… or would they both have imagined the same meeting, if they had got to choose, got to play it out however they wished, wherever, if fate hadn’t intervened… “I’m not sure I know where mine ends and yours begins” ~~I’m not sure where I end, and you begin~~

The moment is broken by the arrival of their drinks. A drink he doesn’t really want, but accepts anyway, no point being rude, after all.

He swirls the glass, considering the swirl of the liquid within, takes a slight, careful taste.

It is good.

Much better than his drink before. It is complex, a flavour that tastes of more than just cheap alcohol and fire, good and smooth… and not what he thinks he needs from a drink.

Not enough of a _burn_.

Still… “it’s… nice.”

Hannibal smiles, slight, but visible, “you seem tired, are you sleeping Will?” the change of topic is hardly a surprise, conversations with Hannibal rarely feel… cleanly linear, still, it had almost felt like they were getting somewhere.

He offers a soft huff in answer, “That’s a lazy shot, Dr,” Lazy, but not wrong. Gods, he is tired. Even sitting here, across from the man he sailed an ocean for… he can feel the exhaustion, deep in his bones.

“Regular sleep is important for good health, I’m simply concerned-”

“My health is no longer your concern,”

Hannibal pauses, “you, are always my concern Will, and currently I am concerned by your reluctance to look after yourself”

He swears his mouth moves without command, “it almost sounds like you’re trying to get me into bed, Dr. Lecter” Shit. How drunk is he?

Hannibal’s eyes widen in surprise, mouth ever so slightly open, apparently thrown.

And well… fuck it, he’s already in too deep… “My room is only a block from here.” The words slip out with little input from his brain, clearly, he must be drunker than he had thought.

Hannibal’s face twitches. Finds a setting, an expression, lips slide up ever so slightly, eyebrow only just raised, “is that an invitation?”

is that an invitation?

It was.

Shit.

He swallows, words slow, careful, “…would that fit with your vision?”

Hannibal shifts, takes a sip of his wine before answering, “perhaps… we are not so conjoined after all.”

There is electricity in his bones. Exhaustion overridden for the moment, he sucks in a sharp breath, bites back - “or perhaps we are,” not the most eloquent of rebuttals but there is a buzz in his veins, mind fuzzy with… _need._ For… something, sleep, booze, a warm bed, ~~blood beneath his fingernails~~ \- “…come back with me.”

Hannibal raises an eyebrow, considering for a moment, and nods. Once, slowly, certainly. Sharp and set.

Discussion done; agreement made.

For a moment he can’t breathe, air caught in his lungs, heart threatening to beat out of his chest-

Hannibal stands, drink finished in one go and nods his head towards the door, “Shall we?”

It’s all suddenly so… direct. So simple, he nods, downs his own drink, though lord knows the last thing he needs in his veins right now is more alcohol, “after you.”

Hannibal pays. For all of the drinks. He doesn’t protest, doesn’t even want to know the cost of that final glass.

Hannibal pays, collects his coat, holds the door, like the gentleman he is want to be.

The bartender offers no more than a disapproving look and then-

It feels more real.

Outside. In the air.

Real and solid in a way that sticky little corner table hadn’t.

Real but not… comprehensible.

He had almost hoped stepping out into the night would bring some sort of… clarity. Cold night air would wake up his tired brain, make sense of the mess he seems to find himself in.

But no such clarity is offered, the night brings little more than a chill to his bones, a gentle sting of cold air into his lungs, and deep understanding that this is real.

Oh, and that they are _drunk_.

If there had been any question to their intoxication before… the stumbled walk home does everything necessary to clear it.

Footsteps prove challenging, a restless, stumbled return. Bodies tired yet moving with that freeing, comfortable energy that only alcohol can provide.

On occasion their shoulders knock together when uneven swaying sends them too close, and when he tries to veer the other way to avoid- shoulder meets brick. An uncomfortable alternative.

Neither addresses it. Neither dares to talk.

He almost feels as though there is some spell between them, just waiting to be broken, the moment someone says a word.

So, they say nothing, winding through the tight, Italian side street, through the pools of streetlamps and over uneven cobblestones, using each other’s bodies to balance when feet slip, at times a hand on the shoulder the only thing that stops one of them tumbling down into the grime below.

He almost isn’t sure if he took a breath for the entire trip through.

He must have. He managed it, finds himself outside the little shack of a place he is staying in.

It’s small, only a few stories, a comfortable little building, tucked into the shadows. Just the right touch of shabby, right touch of rundown and rebuilt that he likes. That he tends to gravitate towards, tries not to think too much about it.

About what it says about him. About what he want’s it to say, the comfortable, familiar cover it provides.

The front room is empty, a small mercy he thinks, it lets them slide through the lobby in silence, no need to break the odd, silent spell they still seemed to be under. Stumble their way up the too narrow stairwell, the uncomfortable, uneven steps proving even more of a challenge then the cobblestones had.

He half collapses at one point, slides against the wall with a tired laugh, stumbling feet falling over one another, sends him sliding to the floor.

Hannibal clasps his arm, tugs him back up to his feet.

The touch is comfortable.

Dangerously comfortable. He finds himself leaning into it, pressing back into the touch. He could pull away once he was on his feet, throw himself up the rest of the way on his own, or push Hannibal out in front, stumble along after…

Instead, he leans into the pressure.

Keeps shoulders pressed together, all but leaning against the man as they push their way up the rest of the steps.

They spill out into the hallway, somehow still attached, an arm, it seems had become thrown over his back, holding him close. He doesn’t fight it.

He wonders if he should be worried that he doesn’t think to pull away.

He puts it down to the drink.

They have to split when they get to his door, so he can scramble through too many pockets, blind fingers searching for the key he knows is in there somewhere.

It takes him longer than he would like to admit to, even longer to get them successfully in the lock, manage to argue it open.

It is a small room, small and sparce, mostly taken up by a less than comfortable bed and not much else.

It is practical, not homy, not personal. A room for one person to stumble into, collapse into bed and sleep through the night, no visitors expected.

He goes first, stumbling into the dimly lit little room without a thought. Without considering what the move does, leaves him exposed, back turned to a killer. He half expects a blow, half expects to feel the burning hot drip of his own blood-

But nothing comes.

Instead, he stands for a moment, middle of the room, head spinning. He half catches sight of himself in the bathroom mirror, the door left open, he can just see the corner of it. see the suggestion of his own face in the gloom.

He barely recognises the eyes staring back at him.

He thinks he may recognise the ones behind him better.

The gaze is painful somehow. His face is…

He turns. Finds Hannibal leant against the doorframe, resting on one raised arm, pressed firm against the wood. He almost wants to laugh at the sight, the man looks… so wonderfully out of place in the weak, off yellow flickering light of cheap hotel lights.

He wants… 

Something. Everything.

Something.

He finally breaks the silence, “…are you coming in?”

“would you like me to?”

He nods.

Not letting himself think too hard about it.

Hannibal steps in slowly. Silently, soft shoes somehow managing to all but glide across slick wooden floors. Until he is there, in the room. In front of him, almost in the same space, Will swears he can all but see their breaths mix when they exhale, he could lean in, wouldn’t even need to step lean and press the slim knife he has tucked away in a pant pocket straight against the gut. ~~Lean forward and press lips together dry lips together~~ -

He takes a step back, a small, half step, not enough to truly move away, but enough to let him breathe, let him desperately try to distract from the sudden spinning mess of thoughts in his head- “a-another drink?”

It would be a bad idea, gods this is already such a bad idea, fuck is he drunk.

But there’s a bottle of gin shoved behind the bedside table; it would be rude not to at least offer it.

Hannibal hums, an eyebrow raised at the idea, “why are we here Will?”

He sighs, tired eyes almost drag closed for a moment, it’s too much of a question for a tired, aching mind. “I’ve been trying to find myself in the ghosts of you.”

Hannibal moves to perch on the edge of the bed, shoddy mattress sinking under his weight, “finding clarity for the future in the past… did it work? Do you know your mind?”

He wants to laugh. He does, a soft, tired thing, settles soft on the other end of the bed, one hand trailed out, towards Hannibal. Not reaching necessarily, but… resting in the space between them.

Does he know his own mind? Does he know Hannibal’s? Both? Neither…

He wonders if this was what Hannibal had expected when he agreed to come back with him.

He wonders… what had Hannibal thought he meant with the invitation?

What had he meant?

What ~~did~~ does he want? 

Sleep.

Gods he wants sleep.

He yawns, unable to hold it back any longer, and, in place of answering he slides his hand out further, fingers knocking together. Exhaustion makes him bold, or perhaps that’s just the drink.

Hannibal’s eyes follow the move, the touch of a frown gracing his face, but he doesn’t pull away. Hannibal looks up slowly, tracking his way up Will’s arm, taking his time with the move, “What do you want Will?”

He huffs out a tired laugh, drags his other hand lazily down his face. “I want… to sleep.”

Hannibal laughs at that, a quiet, soft thing, before he stands, curled fingers pulled apart. Will watches silently as Hannibal removes his coat and hangs it carefully on the hook behind the door, before returning to the side of the bed. soft fingertips trail across the rough blanket. An eyebrow raises in question.

Will huffs, again. Collapses back with a solid, heavy thump against the mattress. He sighs, staring up at the ceiling, trails the lazy hand down, along his chest.

He should get up, get changed, brush his teeth, ~~do something about the wanted criminal standing in his bedroom~~ -

He turns his head, eyes meeting Hannibal’s… tugs himself back up to a half sitting position to untie his shoes, toe them off best he can before collapsing back against the bed.

He sighs for a moment, eyes slide shut, hands resting across his stomach, fingertips dance right above the scar…

There is a shift, a rustle, mattress tilting downwards, he can tell without looking Hannibal has sat beside him on the bed.

He hums, drags tired eyes back open, looking over at the man, sat neatly back against headboard, hands clasped together neatly, studying Will in return.

He shifts, pushes up onto his elbows and drags his body back best he can, properly onto the bed, head reaching pillow, bringing them better aligned, “…are you staying?”

Will he stay? ~~Does he want him to?~~

Hannibal hums, offers an almost painfully soft, “if you’ll have me.”

“do I have a choice?”

“A man always has a choice.”

He sighs, curls in on himself somewhat, turned to the side, thumb strokes the rough fabric of the pillowcase… Lets his eyes drag themselves shut once more, feeling the tug of sleep in his bones, heavy in his head… a soft hum offered up to the world, this could not be further from where he had expected to find himself when getting up that morning,

And yet… he knew his own mind.

….

“stay.” He says.

And stay the man does. 

**Author's Note:**

> Trying to write Hannibal dialogue that sounds... not terrible is just a loosing battle, but you can't say i didn't try,  
> thanks for reading


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